The Endless Path

Mesfakus Salahin

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 

 As evening deepens, the birds return to their nests; 

Where shall I return? 

You have let go of my hand—

The hand that bears the passage of five seasons.

I stand waiting on an endless path, 

Alone in this desolate, traveler-less land.

You walk on, ever further away, 

Hand in hand with the stars,

To a place from which no one returns—

 From which no one can return.

 I know you will never come back; 

Your place of pilgrimage has changed.

Ice will melt into water, and water will turn to ice;

The lamp at the head of the night-bed will flicker out for lack of fuel;

The imprint of love will be washed away by the waters of time; 

The wounds of the path will heal; 

Wild grass will sprout upon the skin; 

Villages will transform into cities, 

And cities will turn into cremation grounds; War will erupt amidst a dance of light;

New rivers will flow, fed by the spray of blood; Hearts will be shattered;

The garments of the denizens of darkness will wear the deceptive guise of light;

The stairway to the seven heavens will crumble to dust; 

‘Yesterday’ will drink dry the waters of humanity; 

Statues of dead stone will lean against the sun; 

And love itself will be manufactured in famous factories.

The wayfarer’s wounds will remain just that—wounds; 

Yet, I shall stand at your doorstep, 

Waiting, with dreams in my hands.